


Evermore

by duplicity



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Depression, Digital Art, Dream Sequences, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Happy Ending, Healing, Infidelity, M/M, Manipulative Relationship, Past Child Abuse, Plot Twists, Surprise Ending, Unhealthy Relationships, negative tags and dark themes do NOT occur between tom and harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:27:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28492362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duplicity/pseuds/duplicity
Summary: One simple potion and you will enter a top-quality, highly realistic, hour-long lucid dream session on the subject of your choosing. This deluxe package consists of six vials for guaranteed fantasy satisfaction! Not for sale to under-sixteens.Harry feels his face heat up. He isn't a—a teenage girl who wants to star in some sultry romance novel. He's married and he's fine with his life. Embarrassed, Harry stuffs the box back into his bag. He pulls the flap over the top and buckles it shut. What is he going to do with this? He can only imagine what people would say—Is he really so pathetic that he needs a fantasy to be happy?
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 77
Kudos: 213





	1. my train could take you home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TomarryHereWeWhoaAgain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TomarryHereWeWhoaAgain/gifts).



> evermore continues to provide inspiration. this story is planned for fifteen chapters of varying lengths, and will hopefully not take that long to finish...
> 
> for those of you who have read 'no body, no crime', you can expect a similar level of emotional impact, but there WILL be a happy ending for this one!
> 
> the identity of harry's husband will be revealed later in the story. for now, you may speculate.
> 
> thank you to [Coral](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePinkJellyfish/works) for the beta on this story! any errors as we go along are my fault -finger guns-

_You know that my train could take you home_

_Anywhere else is hollow_

— willow, track 1.

* * *

The Weasleys had asked him to stay for a few more days. They'd insisted, actually, in the kind, compassionate way that only the Weasleys could insist. They treat him like family, like their own. They give him Christmas presents every year and have been doing so ever since his first year at Hogwarts.

Harry loves them like family in return. Ron is his best friend. Ginny is like a sister to him. Molly and Arthur are—not his parents, that is far too much for him to presume, but they are adults he knows he can count on to look out for him. He knows to ask them for help if he ever needs it.

So the Weasleys had asked him to stay a few more days, but Harry had said no.

Harry had said no, thank you, he really had to be going because—because—

Because it is the holidays and he ought to be at home with his husband.

The train clatters noisily down the track, the steady sound of the steam engine monotonous and repetitive. Harry watches the late afternoon roll past the window, watches his own reflection in the glass. He is frankly exhausted from having to wake early to catch the train and then hustle his way through the lines of holiday travellers. But it will be worth it, in the end.

Harry presses a hand to the glass, fingertips spread over the glow of the setting sun. He could have Apparated home instead. It would have been much faster than taking the train for the entire day. It's just that Harry doesn’t trust himself over long distances. The compression, the lack of air—there is every chance in the world that he’d freeze up, make a mistake, and Splinch himself terribly.

So: the train.

Harry likes the train. The bump-bump of the moving compartments, the shifting shadows as light passes through the wide, rectangular windows. The train is familiar, it reminds him of the Hogwarts Express. It reminds him of going home.

Soon, Harry will be home. His husband had requested he come home so they could spend the week leading up to Christmas in the manor together. Harry is excited. They haven't seen much of each other lately, what with work piling up the way it has. Not that Harry blames anyone for that. Things happen. Schedules change.

Harry had been listless, puttering around the empty house with nothing to do, which is how he'd ended up at the Weasley's to begin with. Molly had asked him over to help with the garden, and Harry could never say no to her. If she needs help, then he is all too willing to lend a hand. Especially because all the Weasley children have moved out. They have careers and families. It makes the most sense for Harry, who has all the free time in the world, to help out.

So Harry had shown up at the Burrow dressed in Muggle jeans and a ratty sweatshirt, ready to get covered in dirt and bruises. Somehow, one afternoon of de-gnoming the garden had turned into a sleepover. The sleepover had turned into a weekend thing, and the weekend thing had turned into a week-long stay. Not that Harry is complaining—he loves the Burrow.

He loves the Burrow, and he would have loved to stay there for a few more days, but he is going home to his husband for Christmas.

Thoughts of a joyful Christmas, with all the decorations, have been keeping his mind occupied for the majority of the train ride. A large tree covered with colourful baubles and glittering tinsel, a roaring fireplace that crackles and spits sparks into the toasty air, a dinner table set with the prettiest emerald tablecloth and the shiniest silver cutlery.

Harry has not gotten to decorate his own tree in ages. Well, not  _ ages. _ It hasn’t been that long, but some days it certainly feels like it has been.

Molly and Arthur had roped him into decorating their tree early. Harry has gotten his practice with untangling strands of light by hand rather than with magic, with placing the ornaments just right on the right branches, with levitating the seven-point gold star to the very topmost branch. A perfect tree for a perfect Christmas, and then, of course, the main attraction of presents.

There are a number of neatly-wrapped boxes resting in his bag right now. More gifts than Harry had ever expected to get as a child. Over a decade later, a part of him is still surprised whenever a present is pressed into his hands.

Harry had left the Burrow before the real festivities began. All of the Weasley children had come home to celebrate the holiday season with their parents, and so the house had been full and lively once more. Harry had gotten to talk to everyone a little before he'd left—just this morning, Fred and George had stumbled into the living room and deposited one more box into Harry’s bag.

_ "Merry Christmas, Harrikins," George had crowed, smacking a wet kiss onto Harry's cheek. "Please do feel free to open it whenever it tickles your fancy, the sooner the better. In fact, a day-long train ride would make for the perfect occasion—" _

_ “Don’t pressure him, Fred!” Mrs. Weasley had scolded. _

_ "Hah, I'm George!" George had nudged his twin, grinning. "Told you they'd think it was you—" _

_ Mrs. Weasley gave an exasperated sigh that her sons ignored, much to Harry's amusement. _

_ "—but seriously, Harry." Fred poked Harry in the forearm. "Give it an open, won't you? We think you'll really like it." _

The gift is wrapped up in the bright orange and purple colours of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. A corner of the box peeks out from the top of Harry's rucksack; it is visible because he keeps taking it out to look at. The twins had given him permission to open it, but he hasn't. It seems wrong to open presents before Christmas. Still, Harry is tempted, especially because of the note written on the gift tag.

One of the twins' first products for their joke shop had been the Patented Daydream Charm. Harry knows that they’ve recently been working on an improved version of it, so it stands to reason that he possesses the latest and greatest version in his rucksack.

The weight of said rucksack rests heavily against his left foot. Harry hadn’t bothered to put it into the overhead because it is the only bag he has with him. Despite the Expansion Charms on the bag’s insides, everyone he knows frequently comments on the fact that he packs light.

Harry is used to living with little, that's all. The essentials boil down to: toothbrush, toothpaste, and a spare change of clothes. Maybe his broomstick, if he’s going to be away for a while. But he doesn’t need a bag to carry his things, he can shrink them down and put them into the pocket of his cloak. The use of a bag is habitual, a symbol of normalcy. Having his bag is important to him.

Maybe it is ridiculous of him to be so frugal—everything he could ever dream of having is within reach. Anything he wants, he can get it for himself, or he can ask for it to be given to him. He doesn't need to live out of a ratty bag, but he does it anyway, and no wonder people make fun of him for it.

It's just that his bag is  _ his. _ It is a relic of his younger days, his Hogwarts days. It is a reminder of old adventures, of storming the halls late at night with Ron and Hermione by his side. Those are memories that are important to him.

The strap of his bag is worn down, and the bottom of it has a hole the size of his big toe, the result of a horrid potions accident in fifth year. It is those little details that give it character. It is his bag and he refuses to part with it.

Harry reaches for his present from the Weasley twins and sets it on the table in front of him. His fingers trace the ‘W’ shapes patterned on the wrapping paper. After another moment of deliberation, he tears the paper off, revealing the box inside. He doesn't have to use it, but his curiosity is killing him.

A bright gold font declares the box to contain six vials of a ‘Patented Fanciful Fantasy Potion’.

There are no images of people on the packaging. Instead, it looks like Felix Felicis has been poured all over the cardboard—the entire package is a swirling, shimmering gold. Harry flips the box over to look at the instructions written on the back.

Harry feels his face heat up. He isn't a—a teenage girl who wants to star in some sultry romance novel. He's married and he's fine with his life. Embarrassed, Harry stuffs the box back into his bag. He pulls the flap over the top and buckles it shut. What is he going to do with this? He can only imagine what people would say—

_ Is he really so pathetic that he needs a fantasy to be happy? _

The present has good intentions behind it, but Harry doesn't need a fantasy to get him through the day. He is going home for the holidays, for the best time of the year. He will be seeing his husband very soon.

The train bumps along at its unhurried pace. Harry watches the sun sink past the horizon, drenching the world in darkness. How much longer? His leg is shaking up and down with nerves. Harry checks his wristwatch; two hours left. The sun has been setting sooner lately because of the winter season.

He'll be home in time for a late dinner, hopefully. Then he can get a head start on using the nice silverware.

Harry's leg goes up and down. Two more hours. He checks his watch again, thinks about what to have the House Elves prepare for dinner. Some kind of roast with lots of sauce and vegetables. He thinks about Christmas and presents, a blazing fireplace and a tree covered in dazzling lights. He thinks about the box with six vials that promise to make his dreams come true.

Dreams are for children. All his dreams have already come true. He has someone who loves him. He has a home of his own. He has friends who care enough to give him presents.

Harry yawns. The weight of the day is catching up to him. Combined with the low lighting of the train compartment, it has created the perfect environment for a nap. Usually Harry naps at home because it's hard to get comfortable anywhere else, but there are two more hours to kill, and they won't die easily.

Just a short nap. He'll set an alarm to wake himself in an hour—the same length of time as a dose of Fanciful Fantasy Potion. Harry fiddles with the settings on his watch. Sixty minutes to sleep. He will prove he doesn't need a potion to help himself relax.

Harry conjures a pillow and adjusts his position in the booth. There's nothing weird about sleeping on the train—people do it all the time. So long as he wakes up before the train arrives at the station, everything will be fine.

Harry yawns a second time and shuts his eyes. The repetitive motion of the train lulls him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> image transcripts:
> 
>  **gift tag:** To make all your wildest dreams come true.
> 
>  **box package:** One simple potion and you will enter a top-quality, highly realistic, hour-long lucid dream session on the subject of your choosing. This deluxe package consists of six vials for guaranteed fantasy satisfaction! Not for sale to under-sixteens.


	2. your heart was glass, i dropped it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry stomps his feet on the welcome mat before he steps inside. The Burrow is decked out in full holiday-style decor, and Harry can smell the enormous feast that Molly must be preparing for them in the kitchen.
> 
> He's hardly gotten to the living room before his boyfriend is upon him, clutching his elbows, brilliant smile turned soft with affection. Tall and handsome. Dark brown hair and dark brown eyes. Harry stares at his boyfriend’s face. At—at _Tom’s_ face.

_One for the money, two for the show_

_I never was ready, so I watch you go_

_Sometimes you just don't know the answer_

_Till someone's on their knees and asks you_

— champagne problems, track 2.

* * *

Snow touches down on the dirt road leading up to the Burrow. From the doorstep, Harry can hear the sounds of merriment within. He rubs his hands together while he waits for someone to come to the door. His hands aren’t cold, though. It is more like he is rubbing his hands together because… that’s what he ought to be doing. That’s what someone standing outside in the cold normally does.

Harry has arrived at the Burrow for a party. He’s arrived with someone—no, he’s arrived by himself. He’s standing on the doorstep by himself. He'd told his boyfriend not to wait up, that they would meet here, and he's beginning to regret that decision. If his boyfriend was here, he'd be distracted from his own thoughts...

The door swings open, revealing Percy Weasley.

"Harry! About time you showed up." Percy's face has a funny pink flush to it, like he's been drinking more than usual. Then he reaches out and tugs Harry into an unexpected hug. Harry doesn't splutter, but it's a near thing. Percy doesn't normally exhibit this much of a desire for physical affection.

But it's a special day, today. Harry’s boyfriend has been promoted at the Ministry to Senior Undersecretary. The youngest in a century, they say. It's incredibly impressive, and Harry's never been prouder.

"Hey, Perce," Harry says. He steps back once the hug is over, putting distance between them. He restrains the urge to wrap his arms around himself, an insecure habit held over from childhood. "Is—" Harry stumbles over the name, licks his lips. "Is he already here?"

Percy grins widely. It's a strange sight. "He's been waiting for you," Percy promises. "Now come in before mum scolds me for leaving you on our doorstep."

Harry stomps his feet on the welcome mat before he steps inside. The Burrow is decked out in full holiday-style decor, and Harry can smell the enormous feast that Molly must be preparing for them in the kitchen.

He's hardly gotten to the living room before his boyfriend is upon him, clutching his elbows, brilliant smile turned soft with affection. Tall and handsome. Dark brown hair and dark brown eyes. Harry stares at his boyfriend’s face. At—at _Tom’s_ face.

Tom speaks softly, as if Harry will shrink back if he speaks too loudly. "Hello, love. Did you have a safe trip?"

Harry flushes. He’s never liked people fussing over him, but he thinks maybe he doesn’t mind it, coming from Tom. "It was just from my flat to here. It was fine."

Tom brushes his fingers over his forehead, tucking loose strands of hair out of the way. "I'm glad," Tom says. He presses a kiss to Harry's cheek, gives his hand a squeeze. "Did you want water? Tea?"

There's a witty retort on the tip of Harry's tongue— _'Did I get the wrong address? I thought I was at the Burrow, not your flat'_ —but it dies a quick death in Harry's throat. He swallows down the remnants of it and shakes his head.

"I'm fine." He coughs, feels the guilt swell up. Not now, he tells himself. Not today. "I know I said it already, but: congratulations on the promotion, Tom. You really deserve it."

"I couldn't have done it without you," Tom says. It is a sweet response—the perfect response. His eyes are so, so warm. Harry wants to fall into them forever.

Harry shakes his head a second time, starts to pull away. He's saved from having to respond to Tom when Ron calls his name, and then saved further when Molly calls them all to dinner.

Tom sits to Harry’s left, polite as ever, filling a plate with equal amounts of everything. Tom compliments Molly on her cooking, asks Hermione how her work on magical creature rights is going, makes wry jokes that startle Fred and George into laughter. He does everything absolutely right, just like he does at work, just like he does with Harry.

Harry pushes his food around on his plate and hardly eats anything.

Everyone else is bubbly, happy, cheerful. Tom is the only one who notices his distress—his hand settles on Harry's knee, pressing gently. Harry looks up at him. There is a clear question in Tom's concerned gaze:

_Are you okay?_

Harry is not okay. But he can pretend. He smiles and nudges Tom with his elbow. He spears a piece of sausage with his fork and lifts it to his mouth. It tastes delicious. Probably. To Harry, it might as well be cotton. His mouth is numb and his sense of taste seems lost.

Tom frowns, but there is nothing he can do in front of everyone else without causing a fuss. He knows Harry hates fusses. He knows a lot of things.

The meal concludes with a toast, with Arthur encouraging them all to top up their glasses. Knowing looks are exchanged around the table. Harry catches onto them far too late.

"To Tom," says Arthur, glass raised, fatherly smile fixed in place. "The best damn Senior Undersecretary the Minister will ever have." He gazes upon Tom with genuine fondness—a fondness Harry recognizes. Arthur, he realizes, is regarding Tom as family.

As if inspired by Harry's thoughts, Arthur's speech continues: "I've always considered Harry to be part of our family. Like a son to me." That makes Harry's heart thud almost painfully in his chest, but it is nothing compared to how he feels when Arthur says, "Tom, I'd be honoured to consider you a part of our family too, if you'd allow it."

Harry feels his mouth drop open in bewilderment—not intentionally, of course, and he feels stupid as soon as it happens. He clicks his jaw shut and turns to look at Tom to take in his reaction. What had brought this on?

"Arthur," hisses Molly. There is a thud under the table that suggests Arthur is the lovely recipient of a sharp kick. "Don't go spoiling!"

But Tom is smiling again, his smile made more beautiful by the joy that spreads over his features. "I'd be honoured to accept," he says in a lower register than usual.

"Go on then," Molly says. She's beaming from ear to ear, gesturing with a flap of her hand. "Ask!"

Everyone turns to look at Harry.

Harry doesn't know what they want him to ask. He doesn't know, but then he _does,_ because Molly is not speaking to him, rather—

She is speaking to Tom.

Tom, who has pushed back his chair and is sinking down to one knee in front of everyone, the most affectionate look in his eyes.

Harry's vision swims. Tom's face is blurring in and out, but his hand grasps Harry's in a gentle grip. So gentle, like Harry is fragile.

"You are the love of my life," Tom says earnestly. "You complete me, you see me as I am and accept every part of me. I trust you with my life, with my heart, with my soul. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Harry. If you'd have me." 

A box is produced from nowhere. Tom opens it up and raises a glittering diamond ring into the air. It dazzles, each facet shining with the light of a thousand sunlit days. "Harry, darling, would you do me the honour of becoming my husband?"

It is too much. Harry isn't ready for this, for marriage, for the commitment that comes with pledging himself to someone forever. The enormity of it overwhelms him. Tom loves him, but he—

"C-can't," Harry chokes out. "I can't, I'm sorry, I _can't—"_ He stands clumsily, knocking his champagne glass over in the process. It falls off the table and shatters on the floor, the singular sound of breaking glass deafening in the silence following his terrible, terrible declaration.

They are all staring at him, but Harry only sees Tom.

Confusion. Heartbreak. Tom's expression is suddenly all too clear, the finer details of his crushing disappointment spreading like wildfire over his face. Harry wants to curl up in a ball and cry.

Then Tom’s sadness fades away, blue skies pushing back the storm. Tom clears his throat. He straightens and gets to his feet.

"I-I see," he says, as if he hasn't been publicly rejected in front of everyone, as if Harry hasn't utterly shattered his heart as thoroughly as he's shattered the champagne glass spread out in shards all over the floor. "I think... I think I ought to go, then."

The shine of diamond vanishes, and then Tom vanishes out the door.

"R-Reparo. Shit. _Reparo."_

Hermione sets his newly-repaired glass back on the table. Her expression is apologetic. Harry closes his eyes for a second and breathes out. He is shaking all over, his hands cold as ice.

People start talking all at once.

_"You have to go after him, Harry—"_

_"—Molly, dear, I don't think this is the right time—"_

_"Give Harry some space, alright, let him breathe—"_

_"—someone should go after Tom, he's all alone—"_

Harry breathes in. Behind closed eyelids, Tom's devastated expression haunts him. He can't leave it like this. No decent person would leave it like this, and although Harry is a horrible person, he can't do this to Tom. Not Tom, who has been so good to him. It is not Tom's fault that he's a mess.

"I'll go after him," Harry says, voice quivering. "I know where he'll have gone."

That sets off a fresh round of protests that Harry ignores. He shuts his eyes again, pictures Tom's face, pictures grey skies and roughly-trimmed patches of grass, and Disapparates.

The graveyard materializes around him. Surprisingly, Harry has not Splinched himself despite his distress. That's a silver lining, at least—it would have been horrible if he'd come here only to bleed all over Tom like an idiot.

Tom is standing by his parents' graves, hands stuffed into his pockets. His posture has lost its pride; for once, his shoulders are slumped.

"Tom?"

Tom doesn't turn around, but he does respond: "Harry."

"I'm sorry," Harry says. The words are inadequate, but they are there. They are honest. Harry kicks at a clump of grass on the ground. He's not sure if he should come closer. Does Tom even want him here? "Um—"

Tom laughs a little. It is a quiet sound mixed with self-depreciation. "Let me guess: it's not me, it's you?"

Harry shrugs. "Something like that." With that comment, he feels confident enough to walk up, to stand next to Tom. "I really am sorry."

"Harry," says Tom, exasperated. "You don't have to be sorry."

Harry feels like an asshole. "Well, I am. So too bad."

Tom actually laughs this time. The joyful noise is out of place here, surrounded by tombstones. Then the laugh tapers off and Tom sobers. He looks down at the ground, then back up at Harry.

"I'll wait for you," he offers. "Until you're ready. I thought—" He shakes his head. "I thought you were ready." Tom sighs, melancholically. "I thought that it was the perfect time, the perfect place. Surrounded by your friends and family, the people who love you."

Tom loves him. Harry feels tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. How to say it? How to explain that he'll never be ready, that he can't be loved, that what he wants the most is to run away from everyone and everything until he forgets who he is. Who he could have been.

"It's not you," Harry says. "It's me. I can't marry you." Not now, not ever. Harry can't say those words aloud, but he tries to convey them anyway. "I'm not—I'm not someone you should be marrying."

"Like hell you aren't," Tom says fiercely. He whirls around and grabs Harry by the forearms—

The action is neither violent nor rough, only sudden, but it's enough. It's enough to make Harry flinch.

Tom goes still, his hands falling limply to his sides. "Sorry," he says. "I shouldn't have moved so quickly."

Harry wants to laugh, now. He wants to laugh at himself for being a failure, for being incapable of receiving the love offered to him, for being miserable and selfish, even now. Even while the man he loves is hurting.

"I've taken an offer," Harry says at last. "To play for the Lancashire Quidditch team. They’ve offered me a two-year contract. I'll be abroad more often than not."

The coward's way out, to let a contract do the dirty work for him. To force Tom to let him go.

"I'll wait for you," Tom repeats. Deliberately keeping his motions slow, he takes Harry's hands in his own. "I love you. We can make it work, Harry. I swear to you that we can. You don't have to do this."

"I don't have to, but I'm going to." Harry drops his hands, pulls away, shuts down every part of himself that is screaming in protest. "You'll find someone else, Tom. I know you, and that’s why I know you will. You're an amazing, incredible person and you deserve the world."

"I don't want the world. I want you."

_Forget me,_ Harry doesn't say. Because he doesn't want that, not really. He doesn't want Tom to forget about him. _Forgive me,_ he thinks instead, which is what he hopes for above all things, that he will be forgiven for breaking Tom’s heart. Tom won't give up on him now, but eventually he will because Harry will disappoint him.

"You'll find someone else," Harry says, firm. "Someone who isn't afraid of sudden movements, someone who you don't have to watch yourself around all the time. Someone who doesn't Splinch themselves whenever they travel from one county to another because they can't handle enclosed spaces." He pauses, considers his words carefully, then finishes with, "Someone who will love you better than I can."

“No such person exists,” Tom says, full of confidence.

It’s a lie, but Harry can pretend that it’s true. “Two years,” Harry says. “I’ll come back then, and if you haven’t found anyone… I don’t know.” Then he’ll have to live with knowing that he’s ruined Tom’s life as well as his own.

“Two years,” Tom promises. He does not sound happy, but he sounds hopeful.

They stand quietly, hands held together. Their surroundings shift and shimmer: the grass grows tall, the skies go from grey to blue and back again. Ivy creeps up onto the graves, curls of green leaves climbing over stone.

“May I kiss you?” Tom asks. Still gentle, always gentle when Harry is involved.

“Okay,” Harry says, after a beat has passed. He is selfish; he wants a kiss.

Tom leans in. The kiss is soft, tender. Harry can’t remember the last time they had kissed, if it was days or months or years ago. Regardless, it feels nice. Harry loses himself in the sensation of it all, relishes in the touch of Tom’s hand on the back of his neck. He tries to move his arms—

His arms are pinned in place, he can’t raise them properly. Harry makes a mild noise of confusion that is placated by Tom’s hand winding through his hair.

Above them, the sky brightens to a blinding white. The graveyard glows, tombstones reflecting the light until it is everywhere. Harry can hardly see Tom anymore. All he sees is white.

Slowly, the feeling of being held fades away, drifting off like an autumn leaf.

Slowly, Harry wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tom's engagement ring for harry is based off the design for the gaunt ring! also, the dates on the graves don't have any real significance, but the death dates are based on the birth months of james and lily potter.
> 
> next chapter, we return to reality... where harry is in for a rather rude awakening :( this chapter is still a bit on the shorter end, but the next chapter will be much longer. the chapter lengths are going to vary depending on the scene(s) that happen!


	3. falling into place like dominoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some hours later, Harry is flipping through the final chapter of 'Quidditch Through the Ages' when the bedroom door opens. Light spills across the floor, burning gold on the pale hardwood floor. The shadow that hovers in the doorway is tall, striking. Harry would recognize it anywhere. 
> 
> "Harry?" 
> 
> Something inside of Harry untwists at the sound of his name. His previous anger lies forgotten in the back of his mind as he rises to his feet, his heart thumping loudly in his ears, and stumbles into a warm, solid chest. There is no replacement for the excitement he feels at being held in these arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is heavier than the previous two. it deals with manipulative behaviours, infidelity, etc.
> 
> brief recap of first two chapters: harry is on the train ride home for the holidays after staying with the weasleys. he's eager to see his husband again. during the ride, harry falls asleep and dreams about tom proposing to him.

_My mind turns your life into folklore_

_I can't dare to dream about you anymore_

— gold rush, track 3.

* * *

Harry jolts to wakefulness, nearly smacking his head against the window of the train compartment. A glaring white light takes up his entire field of vision. It wreaks havoc on his eyes, which had adjusted to the darkness during his impromptu nap.

In the time it takes for Harry to open his eyelids and figure out where the hell he is and what the hell he's looking at, a haze of words washes over him. The light is coming from a Patronus, he realizes groggily, and the Patronus is speaking to him.

"I'm sorry," he says, struggling to sit up. "Can you repeat that?"

The silver snake raises its head in a lofty way, glaring down at him with unblinking eyes.

Harry rubs at his face and adds, "Please?"

The snake's jaw unhinges, allowing a deep voice to pour out.

_"Harry, dearest, I'm afraid something has come up. My return home will be delayed for a few days. The house is fully stocked, and I will be in touch shortly."_

Harry goes still. It is difficult to tell what hits him first: that he had left the Burrow early, despite not wanting to leave, for a day-long train ride that will see him arriving to an empty house; that the brusque tone of the message is distant and impersonal, like Harry is a secretary rather than a spouse; or that his beautiful vision of a joyful week leading up to Christmas has been popped like a glossy, short-lived soap bubble.

The silver serpent does not wait for Harry's response. It slithers through the wall and goes back outside, fading into the cold winter air.

Harry continues to stare in disbelief at the empty space in front of him, where the snake had been. Disappointment crashes down on him shortly after, compressing his chest. He's hardly had the time to process waking up, and already he feels awful, swarmed with regret. He had left the Burrow early, but he had only left because it had been asked of him.

If he could, he would turn around right now and make a different decision—

But he can't. His choice has been made; it is now far too late for him to say no.

Harry shakes his head. He is getting upset for no reason. He vanishes his conjured pillow and checks the time. The Patronus woke him up only minutes before his alarm was set to go off, meaning he has another hour to go before he arrives home. Plenty of time to rid himself of these useless feelings of misery.

Things happen, he reminds himself. Schedules change.

Harry stretches his arm and legs out to loosen the muscles and thinks back to his odd dream to distract himself. The details of the dream are slipping away, but the gist of it remains fresh in his mind. A handsome face, a glittering diamond, a broken heart, and a name: Tom.

He's never dreamed of other men before. It makes him feel guilty. He should be more understanding, more accommodating of his husband's needs. Plenty of people work right up until Christmas. It is reasonable that the Minister for Magic would be one of them.

_This is not the first holiday together he has missed,_ a snide voice inside his head points out. _This is not the first time he has set you aside to attend an event 'of the utmost importance'._

Irritated, Harry forcibly drags his thoughts away from the subject of Christmas. He and Victor won’t be kept apart this holiday season. In a few days, they will be reunited and they will celebrate the perfect Christmas together.

Unfortunately, changing the direction of his thoughts only leads him back to thinking of Tom. The dream had felt so real—too real.

Tom is... Tom is every single one of Harry's adolescent daydreams come true. Tom represents a ridiculous fantasy of the perfect man. Harry has not relied on such daydreams to get him through the day in years, not since he'd—since he'd gotten married.

Harry blames the golden box sitting in his bag. If not for the Weasley twins' gift, his sleep-deprived brain would not have conjured up such an indulgent dream.

Still, part of him can't help but wonder what happens next. Does he see Tom again in two years, as promised? Do they get back together? Curiosity burns shamefully in the back of his mind. He is a married man; there is no place for these kinds of thoughts in a marriage.

But the awful memory of Tom's heartbreak feels impossible to forget. Harry doesn't think he's ever caused anyone that much misery before. Not to mention that Tom does not deserve it. Tom had been so kind, so attentive...

And there is the guilt again. Guilt over his attraction to a man who does not even exist.

Well, Harry is allowed to feel bad for Tom, isn't he? Tom isn't real. He is a figment of Harry's overactive imagination. It's like feeling bad for a character in a book. It's normal.

Speaking of books, Harry needs to get through the final hour of his train ride, and it is clear that his own mind is no longer a safe place to be. Rereading his trusty copy of 'Quidditch Through the Ages' will distract him.

Harry doesn't bother with poking through his bag this time; he summons the book with magic and sets it on the table. The familiar pages will keep him company the way only an old friend can. If Harry takes his time with reading, the book might even last him until his husband returns home.

* * *

The manor is eerie when Harry steps into the entrance hall. The House-Elves come to greet him, fussing over his bag and coat. Harry lets them, not because he's used to it, but because he's too tired to argue. His coat vanishes into the closet. The snow and ice vanish off his boots. Harry wants to vanish, too, but he cannot; the household is looking to him for direction.

Harry puts in his request for dinner, asks to have it ready by the end of the hour. The House-Elves bow and scrape, then pop off to do their work, leaving him to wander off into the sitting room.

He has his bag with him as he walks. The House-Elves know better than to ask for it—his answer is always no.

The sitting room is devoid of holiday decorations, as expected. Harry takes a moment to stand in the middle of the room, gazing at the lavish furniture and empty fireplace. The fireplace doesn't stay empty, however; it roars to life right before his eyes, no doubt the result of efficient House-Elf magic.

Harry stares at the flames for longer than is wise, until his eyesight goes funny around the edges. With some effort, he tears his gaze away from the flame and looks at the rest of the room.

"Right," he mutters. "Time for decorations."

In short order, Harry conjures an assortment of decorations with his wand: emerald garlands for the mantlepiece and silver trinkets for the coffee table. He'll repeat the process with the dining room when he gets there, and he'll ask the House-Elves to source a Christmas tree from the woods out back.

Harry drapes his conjured-garlands with care, fixing them in place with Sticking Charms. He attaches bright gold and red baubles to the ends of the garlands; light from the fireplace sets the baubles' shiny surfaces aglow.

Next, Harry moves to the coffee table. He conjures a silver and gold carousel for the centerpiece and arranges a number of smaller items around it: tea candles, miniature golden presents, snow-dusted pine cones, and silver poinsettias.

It looks pretty, he thinks. He is far from being an interior designer, but his handiwork looks like Christmas ought to look. It reminds him of Christmas at Hogwarts. Harry takes a deep, calming breath. He misses those days, sometimes—passing a simple holiday season with Ron and Hermione. But this is the way of things now. His friends have their own families, their own responsibilities. Harry's place is here at the manor.

Satisfied, Harry leaves for the dining room. Dinner is roast chicken and an assortment of steamed vegetables. Harry finishes his plate and has a mug of hot cocoa to cap off the day. The little white marshmallows bob up and down whenever he lifts his drink to his mouth.

Harry takes his mug to the master bedroom for the evening. He'll leave it on his bedside table once he's finished with it, and come morning, it will be gone, taken away by the House-Elves.

The bedroom is silent. This in itself is not a cause for concern—in fact, if the room had been noisy, Harry might have felt the need to look his surroundings over. Still, he takes a glance around the room. Just outside the window, the moon is high in the sky, illuminating the thin, scraggly clouds that stretch across it like pulled cotton candy.

It is a beautiful night in most aspects. The season has yet to transition fully into winter; some withered leaves cling with devotion to the trees from which they had sprouted. Harry wants to open the window, but—

He shouldn't. He'll catch a cold. If he opens the window, then the breeze will rush in, raising goosebumps on his bare arms, ruffling his hair with a cold touch. It will feel nice, but in the end he'll suffer for it. Still, the empty room tempts him to do it anyway. There is no one here to see him.

Even if he opens the window, what good will it do? He’ll be sleeping soon, though it will be difficult given how the vacant half of the bed seems to mock him. Harry gives himself a mental shake. It is late, that is why he is having these odd, disjointed thoughts. Harry takes another sip of his drink and lets the sweetness of chocolate flood his mouth while he contemplates the lateness of the hour. This room could use a bit of Christmas cheer too.

The mug of cocoa is placed on the side table. Harry sets his bag down on the bed; he has to unpack the few items he'd taken with him. His presents, for one. His toiletries, for another. And, of course, the Weasley twins' gift to him.

Harry lifts the golden box out of his bag. The package wrapping shimmers faintly like glitter. He still doesn't know what to do with it. It is a gift, and it would be rude not to use it. Ideally, he'd ask Victor for an opinion, but this gift feels far too… private. It feels too private to share. Even though Harry doesn't plan to use it, he feels embarrassed by it. In addition to all of that, he feels guilty for dreaming about Tom.

If Harry was to drink this potion, he knows he would choose Tom. He would skip forward two years and find out where their relationship—their _imaginary_ relationship—ends up. Tom had promised to wait for him to come back, but the story may end there, with Tom's bleak hope for a future that will never happen buried in the graveyard.

Harry tucks the box back into his bag. It will be safer there. Out of sight, out of mind. He can unpack the gifts in the morning. There is no one to see him procrastinate except for the House-Elves. Besides, there is no tree yet, nowhere to put the presents.

Justifications made, Harry turns a critical eye back to the rest of the room. He changes the pattern of the curtains from plain black to grey with faint white snowflakes. He eyes the bedside table, empty save for his drink, then conjures a few shiny silver baubles to keep his mug company.

It has been a good day. He has presents from the Weasleys, he has eaten a hearty dinner, he has heard from his husband. Now he will shower off the remains of the day before he changes into pyjamas. He will read two chapters of 'Quidditch Through the Ages' before he goes to sleep. Hopefully, when he wakes, he will see the other half of his bed has been filled.

* * *

Two days later, the House-Elves set up a large evergreen tree in the sitting room. In preparation for decorating the tree, Harry has been conjuring ornaments to pass the time. Amongst the pile of baubles and candy canes and five-point stars are a silver stag and a silver snake. Harry likes how they look, shiny and polished. The stag's antlers have details in the form of grooves, and the snake's body has a faint scale pattern etched into it.

He'll hang those in the front, or better yet, he and Victor will hang them together. Harry has been looking forward to decorating the tree, to celebrating a Christmas tradition with the one he loves the most.

That afternoon, Harry receives another Patronus message. He has, of course, been receiving them regularly, like clockwork. Updates and check-ins. If not for the identifying Patronus, these messages might as well have been updates from the Ministry rather than his husband.

Said Patronus lands elegantly on the carpet in front of the fireplace in the sitting room. It stretches lazily before it speaks.

_"Darling, there has been a change of plans. We will be staying at our coastal home to host a small gathering for the holidays. A few of my associates will be in attendance, and they will expect us both to be there._

_“Do not worry, for I have instructed the House-Elves to prepare the appropriate accommodations. You will inform them what you require for yourself so they may make the proper arrangements. They will escort you to the house tomorrow, and we will remain there until the new year._

_"I will be seeing you very soon, my love. Until then."_

The snake's mouth shuts. This time, it does not vanish immediately. It is waiting for Harry's response.

Harry has spent the past two days holed up in this empty house, waiting patiently. He has been decorating all the rooms in the house while under the expectation that they would be spending Christmas here together. So he has a response, yes. He has a number of rage-filled retorts bubbling up inside of him, begging to be let out. He does not want to spend Christmas at their coastal house. He does not want to spend Christmas with a bunch of strangers. He does not want to experience the discomfort of long-distance Apparation, even if someone else is taking him along for the ride.

"Tell him," Harry says haltingly, his jaw stiff with anger, "tell him I will see him soon."

He will not embarrass himself by losing his temper. When they see each other, Harry will have words with him. He will lay out exactly why he is upset, why this is not acceptable.

The snake departs. As if triggered by its departure, a House-Elf shuffles into the room. Keepey blinks large, baleful eyes at him. She is waiting for him. He needs to tell her what to do. 

"Clear the decorations," Harry says tightly. He rubs a hand over his face, over the stubble he hasn't bothered to shave. "We won't be returning until the new year." Saying it aloud makes it final in a way that hearing it had not accomplished. Just like that, his resentment drains away, replaced by a bone-deep weariness that burdens his limbs like dead weight. "Pack my dress robes and whatever else I'll need for a two-week stay," he adds. "We'll be Apparating to Pleiades Landing tomorrow morning."

The elf nods and scampers off to comply. Harry never feels fully comfortable with it, but he can give the elves orders if he has to. He knows the steps to take, he knows what it means to be the husband of a politician. Harry can smile blandly and speak in careful, neutral statements. Harry can wear fine dress robes and look presentable while attached to his husband's arm.

If only he knew what to do when it really mattered. 

Harry snatches up the stag and the snake, then leaves the sitting room, unwilling to see his hard work vanish into nothingness. He goes to the second floor and exits to the balcony. Up here, he can breathe the frosty air and watch the way damp snow settles on the ground, hardly sticking before it melts into transparency.

Up here, he can allow his mind to go blank.

Unfortunately, his mind does not see fit to cooperate. The snake Patronus's message rankles, an echo that plays in Harry's head, a repetitive chorus of indifference. Work, work, and more work. They've hardly seen each other over the past few months. Harry knows what those at the Ministry think, what they think but will never say: the Minister spends more time with his assistant than he does his spouse.

People demand the time and attention of their Minister. Everyone adores him. They look to him for everything: for leadership, safety, and power. They even look to him for goddamn fashion trends. Everyone tells Harry how lucky he is to be married to a man so great, so handsome, so perfect.

Harry's life is perfect. He is married to the man of his dreams—of _everyone's_ dreams. What a rush, to have been courted by someone sought after by so many. Harry remembers the early days: their long walks through the misty woods, the flush of embarrassment that rose to his cheeks whenever their hands brushed, the giddy feeling of falling in love and having that love reciprocated. 

Their marriage is a beautiful tale of what it means to experience a love so pure that it transcends everything. 

Harry will not throw it all away in a fit of pique. This is their marriage, their relationship, their love. He will do what it takes to make it work. He will make the compromises he has to, he will keep the fragile balance between their public and private lives. What they have is special. It is not anything Harry has been able to find elsewhere. Harry has suffered enough heartbreak in past relationships; he now knows how to differentiate infatuation from love.

In broad strokes, love is easy to understand. But Harry has learned to be wary of what comes from love at first sight. He knows how dangerous the notion of endless possibilities can be. The idea that perfection exists in the form of a relationship is unrealistic. 

Anyone can conjure a fantasy. Crushes come and go, flickering in and out of existence like dying candle flames. It is coaxing a flight of fancy into something raw, something _real_ that requires more than mindless dreaming.

Love between two people takes effort. It takes patience and kindness. These are sentiments Harry feels too strongly about to ever consider them as platitudes. There is no such thing as easy love. There is only true love, which is always worth fighting for.

* * *

Harry arrives at Pleiades Landing without too much fuss. Side-Along Apparition is preferable to Apparating on his own, but the sensation still induces a mix of nausea and panic in him. Keepey gives his arm a pat before she releases him to stand on his own.

Though his legs feel unsteady, Harry forces his eyes open and is greeted by dozens and dozens of tiny twinkling lights that are scattered across the roof, draped over the banisters, and framing the windows. On either side of the walkway, there is a large Christmas tree covered in tinsel and shiny silver baubles. A gorgeous silver and gold wreath is pinned to the front door.

Victor's 'small gathering' must be important, to have earned such splendour. This thought stirs up a thick well of sadness deep in Harry's gut. He has to attend another Ministry party full of politicians—an event that would suck the joy out of anyone, according to Ron. 

Harry pauses to visualize Ron's response: lifted brow, sardonic expression, and a little scoff at the end that signifies what Ron thinks of Harry's Ministry 'associates', which is to say that Ron thinks most of them are ranked only _slightly_ above flobberworms.

Harry's lips curl into a half-smile for a brief second. A party like this is a party Ron would hate, yet it is a party that has been given more attention than _Harry_ has been given so far this holiday season. With that thought, his smile fades. 

"Come inside," Keepey says worriedly. "The house is being warm for you, Master Harry."

Harry stomps his boots on the welcome mat—force of habit; he knows the House-Elves will likely vanish all the snow off his feet before he so much as sets a toe through the doorway—and feels the wards pass over him as he enters the house.

Pleiades Landing was originally a property investment intended as a vacation home. When Harry thinks of this house, he thinks of clean, salty air and a stunning view of the ocean. This house was meant to be a peaceful place for him and Victor to escape the posturing and the politics of Britain's high society. Nowadays, Pleiades Landing functions as an event space, a quaint backdrop for private gatherings with the Minister's most trusted associates.

Harry slips his coat off and places it into the arms of a House-Elf. The entrance hall here is smaller than the one at the manor. It is clear to him that the place has already been picked through by the elves—there is no trace of dust or dirt anywhere. The floor looks clean enough to eat off of.

"Hello?" Harry calls. He doesn't expect an answer, really. If anyone was here, Harry would have been greeted at the door.

Keepey is right behind him, however. His bags are hovering next to her. "Lord Gaunt shall be arriving shortly!" she tells him.

"Right." Harry looks down the empty hall that leads to the kitchen, then to the door that opens up to the main living room. "Guess I'll just head up to our room for now, unpack everything."

"We will unpack for you, Master Harry," insists Keepey, not-so-subtly glancing in the direction of the sitting room.

Harry ignores the hint and holds out a hand for his things. "I'll be in our room. Tell me when my husband arrives."

With reluctance, Keepey floats his bags over to him. Harry drapes his messenger bag over his shoulder and grasps the sturdy handle of his jet-black suitcase—Muggle, not magical; people would talk if they saw it—with his right hand.

The steps that lead to the second floor are tall, the kind one would expect to hear creaking under the weight of every footstep. Harry supposes that the elves take care of that, using their particular brand of magic to wrestle the staircase into silence.

There are large frames lined up along the right side of the staircase: stunning landscapes, artwork commissioned long after the initial purchase of this house, and a wedding portrait.

_What a handsome couple you two make!_ is what Harry normally hears from people while they walk up the stairs. He weathers the comments with a decent amount of self-consciousness; he is aware that out of the two of them, him and his husband, it is not _him_ they are impressed by.

Upstairs, the master bedroom is lavish. Wide glass doors open up onto a gorgeous balcony that overlooks the ocean. Harry turns on all the lights and drags his bags over to the large oak wardrobe. 

In go his dress robes, his casual wear, his cloak. The dresser next to the wardrobe is already stocked with undergarments—Harry pulls out an undershirt and a pair of pants to bring with him to the bathroom. Stress from the journey means he's sweated right through his shirt. He'll want to be presentable for when Victor arrives home. Whenever that is.

Harry sighs and starts to tug his clothes off. A nice, hot shower will help loosen him up.

* * *

Some hours later, Harry is flipping through the final chapter of 'Quidditch Through the Ages' when the bedroom door opens. Light spills across the floor, burning gold on the pale hardwood floor. The shadow that hovers in the doorway is tall, striking. Harry would recognize it anywhere.

"Harry?"

Something inside of Harry untwists at the sound of his name. His previous anger lies forgotten in the back of his mind as he rises to his feet, his heart thumping loudly in his ears, and stumbles into a warm, solid chest. There is no replacement for the excitement he feels at being held in these arms.

"Keepey was supposed to tell me when you arrived," Harry says. His hands clutch at the soft silk of Victor's shirt, his fingers drifting across until they brush up against the stiff fabric of Victor's suit jacket.

A gentle hand cards through his hair, which is still damp from the shower. "I wanted it to be a surprise."

Harry laughs and leans his head into the touch. "Can it be called a surprise when you're expected?" Harry asks rhetorically.

Victor hums; it is a thoughtful sound. "Does my presence not delight you?"

Seconds pass as the question sinks in. It takes a while for Harry to discern the reason for his delay. It would seem that his anger hasn't died just yet, because what he wants to say is _"It delights me more when you don't make me cancel my plans for you, only for you to show up days later with your lackeys in tow."_

"I'm just glad you're here now," Harry settles for saying instead.

"I am." Victor pulls back, smoothing his large hands down Harry's forearms. "Now, let us see about making you presentable, hm? My associates are downstairs; I need us to make the right impression."

Harry exhales around the knot in his throat. Not now, not while they have company. _When, then? When will he say anything—_

Harry smiles and kisses his husband on the cheek. "What do you need me to do?"

* * *

When Harry steps into the sitting room, he knows that no one is really there for him. Or if they are, it is only because he is a step removed from the most powerful man in Britain. He is the younger man, the so-called trophy husband. It is expected of him to be quiet and look pretty.

Years ago, when Victor had first begun his relentless political campaign to become the Minister for Magic, the gossip had been cruel. People had thought Harry was nothing but a toy Victor used to pass the time. Harry had borne it because it was necessary, because causing a scene or kicking up a fuss would have damaged the image Victor had worked so hard to build.

Then Victor had proposed. He had offered marriage as a way to dispel those rumours, as a way to prove that they were in love. Harry had never been happier. It would never matter to him what anyone else thought so long as the two of them knew the truth of it. If they thought he was an idiot, it was their mistake for underestimating him. If they ignored him in favour of speaking to Victor, it was fine—he didn't want to be there anyway.

Harry clings to Victor's arm all evening. He sips champagne, he laughs at the right moment. He's learned to block out the monotony, to perform the role of Victor's devoted husband without needing to engage his mind in the task. The topics are mostly mundane; Harry only interjects when the conversation sways to Quidditch. France’s international team is doing very well this season. All eyes are on star Seeker Gabrielle Delacour to win the World Cup. 

The evening passes in a familiar way. Harry is used to these kinds of gatherings. He trusts Victor to steer them, to keep them on the course of success. Victor nudges Harry when it's necessary for a response. He whispers uncharitable remarks about their guests into the shell of Harry's ear. And then, when the hour grows late, he leaves Harry on the couch with Bellatrix Lestrange while he speaks to Lucius Malfoy by the fireplace.

Harry doesn't like Bellatrix, and he's fairly certain that Bellatrix doesn't like him, either. Sitting next to her feels like a punishment, if he's being honest. He has no desire to watch her bat her eyes at his husband. In the past, Harry's expressed his irritation at this, only to receive the same dull reassurances:

_The Lestranges are too valuable to offend._

_Bellatrix is also married, and despite her less-than-appropriate flirtations, she will not dishonour her husband by acting on her feelings._

_I do nothing to encourage her, Harry. You know this. Eventually, her infatuation will fade. Until then—_

Until then, Harry must play nice.

Surprisingly, Bellatrix has been rather well-behaved all evening. Harry wonders what her husband is doing, since he’s left her sitting alone. But then again, Harry knows what people think of her marriage. Of the two of them, she is the one who married for money, not him.

Harry doesn’t like to cast judgement upon people. It reminds him too much of his Aunt Petunia. With Bellatrix, however, he feels justified in his dislike; he has good reason to look down upon her. He is loyal and he has married for love. Bellatrix has done no such thing, therefore any jealousy or misery she experiences is her own fault.

Across from him, Bellatrix clears her throat. Her wine glass is half full, her lipsticked mouth pressed into a perpetual pout as she quirks her head to one side. "A lovely evening, isn't it?"

"Lovely," Harry agrees blandly.

"It is so very kind for you and your Minister to invite us into your charming coastal home," she says, voice sweet and full of delight. "And so close to the holidays!"

Bellatrix always refers to Victor as 'your Minister', as if Harry has any sort of control or ownership over his husband. It annoys him more than it should, and he's not sure why.

"I'm glad you're enjoying yourself," Harry says neutrally. He wonders, idly, if she comes to these events only to lay eyes on _his_ Minister. What other reason could there be for her to accompany her husband to these stupid dinner parties? Harry _hates_ them, and he would hate them even if they were not stuffed to the brim with politics because all of these men are the same. They are egotistical, bigoted bastards.

Bellatrix doesn't respond for a moment. The two of them look towards the fireplace, where Lord Malfoy is chuckling in that stupid, snooty way he has when he's trying to impress someone more powerful than him. Harry's heard it a thousand times, and it never gets any less transparent.

"You're lucky," Bellatrix says softly. Her gaze is fixed upon Victor, the sweeping curl of his dark hair. Though Victor's hair has started to go grey on the sides, he will only ever be referred to as distinguished.

"Yeah?" Harry asks, equal parts curious and cautious.

Her lips flatten into a line. She chews on the inside of her cheek, which is odd to witness because Harry’s never seen her exhibit any nervous habits before. Then she says, "He chose you."

Harry doesn't know what that means. Of course Victor chose him, they're _married._

Bellatrix exhales loudly, then drains the rest of her wine in one go. She smacks her tongue against the roof of her mouth as she stares at him. Is she drunk?

"Do you know what it means," she says, "to have the attention of someone like that? Someone like him? To be the focus of such... such power. Such _intensity._ When he looks at you, the entire world fades away. When he praises you—" She shudders, setting her empty glass down upon the coffee table with a dull thud. "You'd do anything to hear those words again."

Discomfort settles into him, carving out an icy hole in his chest. "Victor is a wonderful husband," he says carefully.

Bellatrix shakes her head. "You don't understand. You don't—" She sighs and looks down at her lap. When she raises her eyes back up, they are sad, vulnerable. "He loves you, doesn't he? Tell me what that's like. Please?"

Harry's had enough. He stands and smooths out his shirt. "I'm going to retire for the evening," he says, loud enough for a majority of the room’s occupants to hear him.

Bellatrix clasps her hands in her lap. She says nothing, she does not add her voice to the chorus of well wishes that follows Harry to the stairs.

As he trods up the steps to the bedroom, Harry tells himself that he feels nothing. He feels no guilt over leaving because she has no right to ask anything of him. Her delusional fantasies have no place here. Not with him, not with his marriage.

Once he has shut the bedroom door, he changes out of his fancy robes. The heavy material drags against his dress shirt as he tugs it off. Once it’s off, he drapes it over the back of the room's singular chair. These are not the robes he’d picked out for himself. These are robes that Victor had requested be brought to the house _after_ seeing what Harry had picked.

Harry runs a hand through his hair. He wants to shut his eyes and forget about the day. He wants to erase the image of Bellatrix's forlorn expression from his mind.

It doesn't take him long to wash up in the bathroom. With nothing but his own anxious thoughts to distract him, he has every reason to hurry through the nightly ritual of brushing, flossing, and washing up. The sooner he finishes, the sooner he can sleep and start to forget about the day’s events.

When Harry steps back into the bedroom, Victor is there, still fully dressed, eyes dark and alert as they roam over Harry's disheveled shirt and trousers. Belatedly, Harry realizes he should have changed into pyjamas first; he's probably gotten water all over himself.

"You left."

"Yeah," Harry says quietly. "I did. I was tired."

The seconds stretch between them. Harry doesn't want to stand here, bearing the weight of his husband's judgement, but he must, so he does.

Then Victor says, "Did the journey upset you? I told that blasted elf to be careful—"

"No," Harry interjects, cutting off the inevitable tirade. "No, the journey was fine. Nothing happened, I didn't—" He inhales sharply, meets Victor's gaze with his own. "Nothing happened."

"Then what?"

_Everything._ That is the answer Harry wants to give. There isn't one place to pin with the blame. There is no problem awaiting a miraculous solution. There are expectations. There is disappointment. There is Victor's inescapable, piercing gaze threatening to pick him apart at the seams.

"You know I don't like these parties," he says instead.

"I know." Victor sighs. He steps closer and places his hands on Harry's elbows. It makes Harry feel like a child, small and uncertain. "I greatly appreciate the fact that you attend them for me."

Harry knows what comes next. "But?"

Victor pins him with a look. "You are my husband. Your impulsive behaviour reflects poorly on us both. I understand if you wish to retire early—"

"Sorry," Harry snaps, "I wasn't aware I needed _permission_ to go to sleep in my own house."

Victor's hands fall away. "I see."

"No, you don't." Harry steps back, hands balled at his sides.

There is another painful stretch of silence. Harry's head is throbbing with tension and his jaw is clenched tight with anger and dismay. He wants to turn away, but he has nowhere else to go.

"Is this because of Bellatrix?" Victor finally asks. "Did she upset you? Is that why you're acting this way? I told you not to let her get under your skin, Harry."

Harry lets out a hysterical laugh. "Because I'm the unreasonable one, is that it? A sane, reasonable husband would be fine with watching her fawn all over you while you don't do a single damn thing to dissuade her."

"I've hardly spoken with her all evening," Victor says. "Whatever your issue tonight may be, I would appreciate it if you did not take your anger out on me."

That, at least, explained Bellatrix's sudden desolation. She must have been upset at the lack of attention she'd gotten from the object of her infatuation.

"Bellatrix hardly respects her own marriage," Harry says angrily. "She certainly does not respect ours. How is what she does any less damaging to your reputation? To _our_ reputation?"

"You are correct. Bellatrix does _not_ understand the sanctity of marriage, and this is because her own marriage was arranged. She does not comprehend the value and meaning of love, and this is because her experience with it is non-existent. She is seeking support away from her impassive, heartless husband. Your insistence on her role of villainy in this situation is childish and unbecoming. Her preoccupation with me is a passing fancy, unrequited by myself, and you would do better to remember that."

Harry is confused. He had not known that about Bellatrix, that her marriage was arranged. How could he have known? He feels guilty now, for judging her so harshly. She is not a villain in this. Misguided, perhaps, but she is not the duplicitous woman he had believed her to be.

"Do _you_ see, now?" Victor asks. The stern set of his brow is cruel, uncompromising. The impact of his words echoes through the room; Harry shrinks down without thinking.

"Regardless of _her_ circumstance," Harry says in a low, shaky voice. "I don't think it's wrong of me to ask that _you_ tell her to stop."

Victor stares blankly at him. Harry's hands tremble with strain, with anxiety and exhaustion. He would very much like to crawl into bed, alone, and sleep for a thousand years.

"I had thought," Victor says, speaking with great care, applying emphasis to each word, "that you, of all people, would be willing to extend kindness and empathy to someone who has experienced so little of it. I see that I was mistaken. I will respect your wishes and exclude her from any further private events we host, whether they be here or at the manor."

Harry doesn't know what to say to that. That was not what he had wanted out of this argument. _None_ of this is what he wants.

"Now, if you've finished causing a fuss, I should return to our guests." Victor's tone is now conversational, pleasant. The whiplash of this only disorients Harry more. He is fixed in place, frozen like a statue while Victor continues to speak to him. "If you prefer, I can take the guest bedroom for the evening?"

Harry has no answer. Why does he feel so terrible, like all of this is his fault? He had just wanted to go to sleep and now... now things are awful. He should have kept his mouth shut. He shouldn't have made such a big deal of things while there were guests downstairs.

Victor sighs and nods as if Harry's silence is expected. "I will see you in the morning, Harry. Good night."

The door shuts with a click, taking the golden light of the hallway with it.

Harry turns on the lamp next to his side of the bed. He still has to finish changing into his pyjamas. The process is slow, far too slow. Every stiff, clumsy motion of his body zaps him of more energy. Eventually, Harry peels back the sheets and the blankets from the bed and collapses into it.

Emotionally and physically, Harry is utterly spent. He expects to pass out right away, to tumble directly into the blissful, fleeting experience of non-existence that sleep would grant him.

He does not, of course, because that would be too kind of a fate for someone who has just ruined an entire evening with his lack of foresight. Harry shuffles and twists around and around, trying to get comfortable. Thoughts of Victor and Bellatrix take up all the available space in his head, crowding out everything else.

His own excessive thoughts are drowning him in doubt and worry. At this rate, he won't fall asleep for hours. Harry rolls onto his side so he can look at the window. The curtains are mostly shut, but there is a bit of moonlight peeking through the gap, painting a sharp line of silver across the floor and mattress.

He hates feeling trapped by depression, but it feels impossible for him to wade out of it.

Is this how Bellatrix feels about her arranged marriage? Harry had thought her shallow, had believed her to only be interested in money, looks, and power. But no, she is as much of a person as anyone else. Her actions have feelings and reasons behind them, even if those actions upset him.

Bellatrix dreams of escape, of running away from her husband and into Victor's arms. Can Harry fault her for that? She had called him lucky, and she is not the only one who thinks the same way. He has known love, kindness, and empathy. He has someone who loves him and he has friends who he considers to be his family. There is no reason for him to want more than the life he has been given, and yet—

He does. He wants what Bellatrix wants: to run away from his problems, to be told by someone else that everything will be okay.

Harry knows where he has come from—nowhere, nothing, a cupboard under the stairs. The scars from his childhood, visible or not, mark him even now. But the upward path of his life had led him to Victor, to safety, to love and light. Harry had always wished for someone to take him away from the Dursleys, to relieve the pain of feeling worthless and unwanted. Now he has that. He feels guilty for wanting anything more.

As a child, he'd kept himself company with fantasies of a better life. Those daydreams had been his only source of comfort. Then he'd met Victor, and all of those silly, childish dreams had been left behind. An imaginary life didn’t hold a candle to a real one, and Victor is perfect—the only one for him.

_If Victor is so perfect,_ asks the voice in his head, the snide one that grates on Harry's nerves, _why does that potion show you someone else?_

"It's just a stupid potion," Harry mutters aloud. He does not sound convinced, even to himself.

He tries again: "It doesn't mean anything."

But Victor had justified Bellatrix's actions, hadn't he? Actions that were far more harmful than ingesting a prank potion meant to be used by students who wanted to sleep during their History of Magic class.

_When you put it that way, you've practically given yourself a free pass, haven't you..._

Harry groans and rolls onto his stomach, burying his face into his pillow. Talking to yourself is not a good sign, and having a voice in your head is an even worse one.

Maybe the solution is to give in. If Fred and George are gifting this potion to him, it must be because they think he needs it. He can drink up and pass out, skip right over the agony of tossing and turning all night. Perhaps he'll even feel less sad in the morning.

Yes, it would be nice to fall asleep right away. That's what Harry tells himself as he sits up and wandlessly summons his rucksack. The golden box is nestled inside, tucked beneath his other presents. After some fumbling, Harry manages to pry the top of it open.

From within the box, six potion vials twinkle at him, their contents a beautiful, gleaming gold.

Harry plucks one vial out and lifts it to eye level. His face feels unusually warm as he yanks the vial’s stopper out with one hand. What will it taste like? What will it feel like, to be so immersed in a fantasy that it feels real?

According to the instructions, he is supposed to think of what he wants before he drinks it.

Harry knows what he wants. He wants Tom. He wants to know what happens two years after their conversation in the graveyard.

Before he can lose his nerve, he raises the vial to his lips and slams its contents back like a shot glass full of whiskey.

Harry dumps the box back into his bag. He shuffles backwards and curls up on the bed. His breathing is slower now, more even. His anxiety is draining away.

Across from him, the stripe of moonlight on the floor is so very bright. This is the last thought he has before the Weasley twins' potion sends him into a deep, dream-filled sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew. a very long chapter with much to think about. some small clarifications just in case: victor and tom are not related, are not the same person. they are entirely separate characters. victor is based on voldemort, which is why we have the politician shtick and the gaunt surname. we'll see more of him throughout the story.
> 
> the next chapter will probably be long, maybe not as long as this one. we will, as harry decided, look at what happens two years after he rejected tom's proposal.

**Author's Note:**

> find me & my writing updates on tumblr [here](https://duplicitywrites.tumblr.com)!
> 
> feel free to join my personal discord server for my writing [here](https://discord.gg/BJRP4A5)!


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